


Love beyond

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Ghost Mary, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sherlock Has A Nightmare, or at least Mary tries to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mary Watson, née Morstan, realizes she's dead with her child trying to give her birth, she can't pass on. She promised to take care of John, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love beyond

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. I don’t know what possessed me to write Mary/John. You know it’s far from my otp. But Mary wanted a word, and so she had a fic.

Mary was beyond happy, holding her newborn little girl in her arms. They were going to call her Carmen. It wasn’t until Carmen talked – actually talked, in fully formed words, not wailed or babbled – that Mary felt something might be amiss.   
“Mummy! Look, the pretty light!” Carmen said, reaching out towards bright beaming light beams. It was indeed a pretty sight, golden and warm and not at all congruent with the cloudy late fall day it had been.  
Mary looked for her husband, to see if he could make head or tail of this… she found him not at her side, but rather under her body. He appeared to be kneeling next to her body, and holding Carmen’s twin – had she given birth to twins? She didn’t think so…  
It took her a few moments to understand that she was floating over her own body, the same way that Carmen had left her own tiny form to throw herself in her waiting arms. This didn’t look too good…She tried to get back. She tried to instruct Carmen to go back down and move, or breathe, or use in any way the body they’d created for her. It was impossible. The way was closed – that’s how it felt at least.   
Oh my, they hadn’t both died had they? Oh no, no, no, no, please no, she wasn’t ready to die. And it wasn’t even a matter of what she wanted, or deserved, or should have. John wasn’t ready to have them die. Twenty one long, painful months had passed since the fateful day at the Reichenbach Falls (which she would never stop to regret), and despite everything – despite the awaited joy of the life they created together – her husband had not yet overcome fully his grief for the detective, for crying out loud! He couldn’t afford to lose the both of them to childbirth, too!  
From inside the light, Mary heard her father’s voice, calling them, urging the both of them to pass on. But she simply couldn’t. Who would watch over John? Help him? (Not that she could do much now that she was dead…but surely, being there with him was better than the other option.) Carmen tried to wriggle away from her grasp, at the same time tugging on her arm to follow. The light was wonderful, indeed, she could almost weep with joy at the love emanating from it – but there was a bigger love anchoring her where she was. Still, was it right to keep her baby from reaching Paradise? She decided to let Carmen choose by herself.   
“Baby, Carmen, love, what do you say? Do you want to go inside the pretty light and stay with grandpa there or stay with mummy and dad for a while still? We probably won’t be long,” she offered, rocking her child.   
She couldn’t help but be afraid that their permanence would indeed be short, even if she firmly decided to watch forever, if necessary, over John. How long would he be in joining them now that he had no one to live for? Her husband needed another person to care for – and that someone needed to care for him in return. What would happened if her precious love acted against himself, yearning to find the both of them again? Would Someone get angry at him for it? She’d plead his case, if necessary. She could only hope it would be enough.   
“Why don’t you come with me, mummy?” Carmen asked, pouting.   
“Because dad needs someone at his side – and I promised him I would be the one,” Mary answered truthfully.  
“Dad! Dad! Daddy! Come too!” the little one yelled. “See? He doesn’t even hear us. Maybe he doesn’t care. Let’s go,” she pleaded, tugging again on mummy’s arm.   
“No, you go, Carmen, love. You can stay with grandpa for a while. See, he’s calling us, and I’m sure he’ll love you very much. But I can’t really come. I’ll be over soon, but… you don’t ever have to say dad doesn’t care for us. He loves us very much. Your dad has gotten the biggest heart of all the people I’ve ever known. It’s not his fault if he can’t hear us now,” Mary scolded.   
“I’ll be waiting for you both. Just don’t be too long, Mummy,” Carmen replied, finally squirming out of Mary’s embrace to the warmer and happier enfolding of the light – and her grandfather’s gentle voice. Mary, sighing, let her go. She didn’t have the right to force her baby to remain in this dark, angsty side of existence. But she had made a vow to John Watson, and simple death would not be strong enough to keep them apart.   
She just hoped that she could offer some form of comfort to her grieving husband. While it was soon evident that, like her daughter had noticed, he couldn’t hear her – and, apparently, not even perceive her presence, despite her depositions of a ghostly kiss on a tear-covered cheek. Sadly, her hovering did not help him any. When he slept though, it was a different thing.  
Mary could reach him then – invade his dreams. She gave him a tiny bit of their lovely home life back, asking about his day, sitting with him by the fire with something to knit while he read the papers, and preparing meals. She should really start to learn how to interfere with the physical world as some ghosts were known to be able to do. John was skipping so many meals lately. He was becoming gaunt. She always made a point to tell him how much she loved him and how he was her biggest treasure, more than any woman could ever hope to find.  
She thought it would help him, to have a bit of happiness back. To have their quiet love back. Seeing him break apart each morning when wakefulness forced the stark reality that it was only a dream – a now unrealizable one – made her wonder if she wasn’t inflicting more damage rather than comforting him.   
She needed to influence the waking world somehow. If she could tell him he was loved – still loved, so very much – when he couldn’t deny it as a wish-fulfilling fantasy, it might help him.  
Mary wished John would go to a medium – a true one, if they existed – so she could pass her message, but it was highly unlikely. Her John shared the opinion of his late friend about such people. He considered them frauds who preyed on the weak (and she supposed some, maybe even most of them, certainly were), and not even Doyle, who was fascinated by the occult, would manage to drag him to a séance, now less than ever.  
Still, no matter how hard she tried to concentrate, even the simplest of physical acts – like picking up a pen to leave him a love note – was beyond her. She passed through matter like mist, and it seemed that John, awake, couldn’t perceive her at all – not even a shiver when she tried to kiss him in comfort.  
She might have been a particularly weak spirit (it was so unfair – why her?) or maybe such talents were discovered only after centuries of continuous application by the famous ghosts of legend – their lives always seemed to be at least from XVIIth century. But Mary didn’t have centuries. She needed to help John now – before he lost himself to grief and despair.  
Unsure about what to do, she tried to let him have the run of his next dreams, though she visited them, but as soon as he noticed her they morphed into nightmares. John cried in his sleep, and begged for her forgiveness, and no matter how many times she repeated that it wasn’t his fault, that she didn’t blame him, and that he should really stop blaming himself, he seemed to not hear her. Or not believe her. Or something.   
The next time, she tried showing him why he shouldn’t blame himself. She took his arm and brought him in sight of the warm, loving light which she only resisted for his sake, and repeated that there was happiness there and that he shouldn’t suffer for her, because only his pain could hurt her now.  
That seemed to be a terrible mistake though, too. John almost followed her - or to be honest, guided her, soon taking the lead, anxious to merge in the all-compassing love - into the self-same lovely light, where he had no business going because he was still very much alive. She nearly killed him.  
In order to save him from the light, Mary had to forcibly drag him away with all her strength. Desperate to distract him from the light and make him focus on her instead of the light, she kissed him with all her love. Such an act might be a tiny thing when compared with the love emanating from the light, but it was familiar and sorely missed and not something he suddenly found himself willing to pull away from, thank God.  
“You have to go on, John. For me. Please,” she begged. “I’ll always be right by your side, I swear.”  
He sighed, but finally relented, once again uttering softly, “I love you, Mary.”   
After these last two disasters with reaching out to John in dreamland, she started to feel the necessity of consulting with someone more expert in matters of death and afterlife. Honestly, she’d been flabbergasted at not finding that place on John’s shoulder, next to his ear where a smart ghost might whisper temptations surreptitiously, occupied by Sherlock. The place was conspicuously missing the detective’s ghost. If she’d spent time in her life ruminating over such lugubrious matters, she would never have guessed such was possible. The two men had always been together.

Now, she missed the detective. Sherlock Holmes had encountered death only a little sooner than her – he had little less than three years, not centuries, to figure out how death worked – but he had been a genius and would indubitably have been able to consult her most adequately. They both cared for John, after all, almost as much, she’d been ready to recognize. Now she needed a guide. She needed help. She was floundering on her own, and had almost managed to murder John, for God’s sake. But Sherlock was unreachable to her – he hadn’t even been a gentle voice in the light. She did not know how to contact those who had already passed on. At least, she assumed he’d passed on. 

Somehow it made perfect sense, one month later, when the detective finally appeared – not on her side, like she’d always believed, but by John’s side. Alive. And spouting nonsense. “Didn’t know you’d be so affected?” 

If Mary would have had any power at all in the material world, she’d have used right then to clobber the brilliant idiot on his head with the heaviest weight she could lift. Hopefully, heavy enough to concuss him. He’d left John and let him grieve, alone! He should be kicked back to Tibet! John would never do so to Sherlock, though. John had been adrift too long. Suddenly he’d found an old, familiar, comfortable lifeline to give him direction, and purpose, and above all affection. All in one breath, she could suddenly breathe easier. She was angry, but she was relieved too. John wouldn’t be lost anymore. 

She couldn’t help it, though – she followed them around. She was happy that she was apparently tied to John and not their home. The case was…well, John was on a case, and even if he’d consulted with Lestrade it was the first time she saw him cheerful in three years. And this was all she’d ever wanted, right? John happy, and looked after. Her prayers had been answered. 

That night, though, she didn’t enter John’s thoughts. Instead, she slipped into the detective’s mind, determined to give him hell for having abandoned John. She was surprised to discover that she didn’t have to do a single thing to give him nightmares though. He was doing quite fine generating his own bad dreams. He’d seemed so callous earlier that day. His nightmares were a series of…what-ifs, she surmised, events that had happened in the last three years when he was missing. No matter how strongly she felt he needed to be punished for abandoning John, she certainly hoped these horrific scenes weren’t actual memories. One of the worst nightmares, the one that woke the detective up with a hoarse scream on his lips, was certainly quite bloodcurdling…one in which Sebastian Moran, angry at having lost his boss, decided to kill John at the Reichenbach Falls, a 250 metre precipice.  
She’d never thought that the detective’s awful deceit in faking his death and disappearing might be a very twisted means of protecting her husband. She was mildly ashamed of her earlier rage. John would have scolded her severely for being so bitter about his friend’s return from death (well, supposed death) if he could have talked to her. And he would be right in doing so. She would have blushed, if ghosts could blush, which they can’t, now. 

Unexpectedly now, the almost-gravitational pull of the light, which had been easy to overlook until this moment, in her worry over her husband, suddenly became stronger. Was this how it has been for Carmen since the start? And Carmen…she’d behaved so poorly with her. Now that she saw John blossom anew, finally finding an anchor in his old friend, she couldn’t help but feel unneeded. They couldn’t perceive her. With her attempt at directing dreams, she hadn’t done anyone much good. Could she possibly have done more damage, stopping John from moving on in his grief? She certainly hadn’t meant to, but now she couldn’t help but fret.   
She didn’t exist in their same plane of reality. But now she wasn’t worried that John might try to join her at any minute and she did miss her child. Wouldn’t it be better to join Carmen? Still, that would mean leaving John alone on their empty home…he was still prone to random fits of crying when he was on his own…she might not be able to help, but she’d feel bad. Still, the pull of the light was starting to become almost too strong to resist.

Finally, household affairs were settled. The house would be sold (such a nice lad the buyer was, too, with kind grey eyes and a heavy French accent). Mary wasn’t certainly complaining about it. John would be going back to Baker Street. He’d be looked over. Mr. Holmes wouldn’t let him cry in solitude or be drowned by desperation. The man would never forgive himself if he did. Though, to be honest, his solution to that might entail cocaine…but John had always scolded his friend for it and wouldn’t take it now. Oh well. Ranting at Holmes to behave himself might be just the distraction John needed from his own grief. And there’d be cases again. Cases with Holmes always made John happy. She didn’t need to hang out over her husband’s shoulder, worried and powerless like his guardian angel, anymore, did she now? She could rest. She was so tired…

The last night John would spend in his old house, she once again slipped in his dreams. “I love you John. I’ll love you forever. Promise me to remember that?” she begged, choked with emotion.   
“I promise. I’ll never forget you, Mary. I love you, my dearest,” John replied, hugging her tightly as if he didn’t want to ever let her go and kissing her hair, her brow, her shiny eyes, and finally her lips.  
“Be happy, my love,” she entreated, before ripping herself out of his dream and remaining hovering above his sleeping form. She couldn’t keep doing these things to the both of them. She had to let him move on from her – and from his grief.   
That morning, when he went back to Baker Street and his old bachelor life, she didn’t follow him. She remained in the empty house, immaterial tears on her eyes. She finally closed them once his hansom has disappeared from view through the window. She abandoned herself to the pull of the loving light. “Carmen, love, mummy’s coming,” she murmured.


End file.
